| As if the mournful wish
had touched her heart,
The slumbering maiden woke, with sudden start;
Turned, with a dazzled and intense surprise,
On that fond face her bright, bewildered eyes;
Gazed round on each familiar object near,
As though she doubted yet if sense was clear;
Covered her brow and sighed, as though to wake
Had power some spell of happy thought to break;
Then murmured, in a low and earnest tone,
"Oh! is that blessed dream for ever gone?"
Strange is the power of dreams! Who hath not felt,
When in the morning light such visions melt,
How the veiled soul, though struggling to be free,
Ruled by that deep, unfathomed mystery,
Wakes, haunted by the thoughts of good or ill,
Whose shadowy influence pursues us still?
Sometimes remorse doth weigh our spirits down;
Some crime committed earns Heaven's angriest frown;
Some awful sin, in which the tempted heart
Hath scarce, perhaps, forborne its waking part,
Brings dreams of judgment; loud the thunders roll,
The heavens shrink blackened like a flaming scroll;
We faint, we die, beneath the avenging rod,
And vainly hide from our offended God.
For oh! though Fancy change our mortal lot,
And rule our slumbers, CONSCIENCE sleepeth not;
What strange sad dial, by its own true light,
Points to our thoughts, how dark soe'er the night,
Still by our pillow watchful guard it keeps,
And bids the sinner tremble while he sleeps.
Next
|